City of Wolves: Alphas on Motorcycles

3 | Bombs

Celeste

As Matthew makes his first call, I chew my nails and stare out the window. My ears are ringing from all the sounds, my eyes are stinging from all the lights, my heart is racing from all the action. When Matthew curses that there is no answer, I turn to face him. He's already promptly dialing the second number. The direness of the circumstances strike me acutely.

"What do I do?" I ask helplessly, my arms protectively hugging my torso.

"You just keep watch. Keep doing what you're doing."

"What if something...happens?"

"Run to it. Provide aid...unless it's the Lycans, then hide. They can fend for themselves."

He dials the second number, phone pressed to his ear, the glowing mouthpiece illuminating his mouth and chin green. Pursing my lips, I return to my spot at the window—a spineless spectator shaking in my sneakers as I hope to the moon and back that nothing bad crosses our path so we can go home unscathed and pretend that none of this ever happened. The risks I take on a daily basis are small but they add up over time. Matthew is fearless and I admire him for that, but I can sense his disdain at my weakness and oftentimes there is tension between us because of this fundamental difference that exists.

It feels like an earthquake is coming on, the floors and windows vibrating. The sirens grow louder and louder as the lights, red and yellow, grow brighter and brighter. I know it's louder and brighter to me than it is to Matthew but he must be deafened and disoriented nonetheless. The first ambulance, driving on the sidewalk, crashes into the utility pole the camera we disemboweled was attached to, and the second one pulls up beside it and screeches to a halt. Turning back to Matthew, I notice how the phone in his hand has been dropped to the ground as he stares, like a deer, at the scene before him, just as stunned as I am.

There is smoke pouring from the hood of the ambulance that has crashed. The blood rushes from my face. I have never actually witnessed an accident happen live; I am either fortunate or unfortunate enough to have only witnessed the aftermath. Despite all my grievances towards my lack of bravery as my most obstinate character defect, I find myself springing into action, running through the door to assist the scene any way I can. These are comrades in one way or another.

The other ambulance silences its sirens, much to my pleasure, and due to the crash of the other ambulance the sirens have been killed but the sound of hissing and sizzling is almost worse because where there is smoke there is fire. A group of three men in masks run out from the cab of the surviving ambulance but, despite their appearance, I know we have a mutual mission in freeing whoever has survived the crash from the caved-in vehicle. They are protestors. The anonymity limits their chances in being identified, albeit it cannot completely eliminate the possibility of it happening. It does make them appear more malicious than their intent is, however. They move too fast for me to stare into their eyes to acquire certainty in this predicament.

Nonetheless, all hands are on deck as two of the masked figures and I work to unlatch the rear door of the module. There are shouts coming from within so people (used for conversational ease) are inside and alive. Emotions are gone as instinct kicks in. When the doors open, several unmasked men spill out, coughing, covering their mouths with their forearms. I tell them to run inside the shop where Matthew holds the door open, extending an erratic welcoming gesture as the men shake their heads. I furrow my brows.

"Oh no. We are going to blow this popsicle stand," a voice says from the front of the vehicle. She walks around the side of the vehicle and I see she is pretty banged up. For no particular reason I ask if she was passenger or driver as we put distance between ourselves and the loose cannon in case it decides to throw shrapnel. "Passenger. Driver was shot in the head by a Lycan. That is why we crashed. Luckily it is the other ambulance that carries the explosives. We miss our fallen friend but he died for what he believed in and he would want us to carry on with our plans. This ambulance will probably catch fire soon and the explosives will take it from there."

"W—wait—" my eyes are wide. "You mean...you have bombs?"

"We have connections in surprising places," the woman is cautious. Her white teeth are covered in blood that is pouring from an obviously broken nose. She is small, petite. I sense that she is a fundamentally good person and I let my guard down. She senses when I do and smiles. Matthew comes out from the shop as the men, who have ceased coughing, haul over to the other ambulance and begin unloading black duffle bags. "Why are those doors unlocked? Is that your shop?"

"Yes," I nod. "Are you about to blow it up?"

"Yes," she nods. I feel nothing. It's nothing personal. Just beliefs, just business. "What does your shop sell?"

"For a price I provide a valuable, sought after service. I am able to locate mates around the globe for those who yearn to seek their fated other half and connect them. Most of my clients are Lycans, since they feel the bond the strongest, but some werewolves seek my service as well. Usually those who are at least half werewolf."

"Those who shift," she raises an eyebrow. "Not all mates are a stone's throw away I suppose."

"No. Being across the ocean is not uncommon," I shake my head. She asks how I connect them just as Matthew walks away to help the men with their bombs, leaving it just us girls. "I get...visions which I am able to paint. I can identify location based on the setting, even though I've never been to most of the locations I see."

"Why is your gift so valuable?" She is fascinated by me, by my calmness. Inside I am in turmoil but that conflict is entirely personal. As two women surrounded by a group of men we have entered the dialogue with respect for each other's fragile positions in the world. "And why are you engaging in a civil discussion with me when I intend to destroy what is possibly your livelihood in there?"

"My ability to identify mates and where they are is not particularly rare, but the distance and acuity in which I do so are valuable. I am only one of three werewolves on this continent who can identify mates the whole way around the world; most with the same gift are only regional," I blush. The men are dropping the bags along the street as we get to know one another. It's very jarring. "I also get random visions the odd night that I paint and can sometimes connect to those who come to see me, so there are a lot of valuable portraits in the storage room. Between you and me, I am not brave. I am here because my boyfriend made me feel guilty, rightfully so, but I'm scared. Destroying what is in there is the closest I think I'll ever get to being brave, but only because I let it happen. What's your status?"

"I am also part werewolf, but not part enough to shift. My key gift is compassion," she says as she steps towards me, closing much of the gap between us. "Laugh if you must, but I am able to discern who does and does not deserve compassion. You do, Lycans do not. I feel vindicated in this stance because of my gift. I am sorry your livelihood gets hit in the crossfire."

"I am carrying a terrible secret, but I will not share that secret. I just need you to know I'm on your side and I approve of what you're doing, but only because of why you're doing it. My name is Celeste," I extend my hand in greeting but instead she hugs me around the neck; since I am taller it forces me to crouch down. I laugh awkwardly, nervously as she pulls away.

"I am Jasmine. I know you're on our side because you ran to help rather than to fight. That is brave, Celeste, even if it merely felt like the right thing to do."

When she pulls away a few of the men shout at us that they're throwing the last bag on top of the hood of the ambulance which has been hissing louder and louder, a literal ticking time bomb. As soon as they throw the bag they come running toward us, indicating to us that it's time we start running too. I grab Jasmine's hand as I hold out my other hand to Matthew who takes it and leads the way. Partisans sure do bond quickly.

When we get to the end of the street we turn around. There are shouts and howls and growls and more sirens coming from all around us and I can feel my anxiety spiking. If we get caught we will never know what it means to have a livelihood again. We will lose everything. Every. Thing. It has to be worth the risk. It has to. It has to. I have to feel like I've made a difference. This risk can't be for nothing. It can't. It simply can't.

"Your friend," I look down at Jasmine as she wipes fresh blood from her nose. She looks up at me. In this society we are no strangers to death but I still find myself appalled by our collective ability to cope with it. "Is it too late to retrieve him?

"This is what they call going down in a blaze of glory. Trust me, he'd love this. He'd think it's poetic."

"I'm scared," I whisper to Matthew. Scattered groups of protesters have spotted us and freeze, not sure of our status as friend or foe. Authorities might not be far behind. Despite the coolness of the night I am sweating. "I'm so scared."

"You've done something incredible tonight," he wraps his trembling arm around me and kisses my temple. "Your sacrifice will be rewarded."

The bomb on top of the hood of the ambulance ignites neon orange—the first of many ignitions, the first of much hastened c*****e.